The slow procession of this satiate world! 
  Dear Lord, I burn for Thee!  Give me Thy Quest! 
  Down through the old reverberating time,
  I see Thy knights in wonderful array
  Go out to victory, like the solemn stars
  Fighting in courses, with their conquering swords,
  Their sad, fixed lips of purity and strength,
  Their living glory, their majestic death. 
  Give me Thy Quest!  Show me the Sangreal, Lord!”

  He lay upon a mountain’s rocky crest,
  So high, that all the glittering, misty world,
  All summer’s splendid tempests, lay below,
  And sudden lightnings quivered at his feet;
  So still, not any sound of silentness
  Expressed the silence, nor the pallid sun
  Burned on his eyelids; all alone and still,
  Save for the prayer that struggled from his lips,
  Broken with eager stress.  Then he arose. 
  But always, down the hoary mountain-side,
  Through whispering forests, by soft-rippled streams,
  In clattering streets, or the great city’s roar,
  Still from his never sated soul went up,
  “Give me Thy Quest!  Show me the Sangreal, Lord!”

  Through all the land there poured a trumpet’s clang,
  And when its silvery anger smote the air,
  Men sprang to arms from every true man’s home,
  And followed to the field.  He followed, too,—­
  All the mad blood of manhood in his veins,
  All the fierce instincts of a warring race
  Kindled like flame in every tingling limb,
  And raging in his soul on fire with war. 
  He heard a thousand voices call him on: 
  Lips hot with anguish, shrieking their despair
  From swamps and forests and the still bayous
  That hide the wanderer, nor bewray his lair: 
  From fields and marshes where the tropic sun
  Scorches a million laborers scourged to work;
  From homes that are not homes; from mother-hearts
  Torn from the infants lingering at their breasts;
  From parted lovers, and from shuddering wives;
  From men grown mad with whips and tyranny;
  From all a country groaning in its chains. 
  Nor sleep, nor dream beguiled him any more;
  He leaped to manhood in one torrid hour,
  And armed, and sped to battle.  Now no more
  He cried or prayed,—­“Show me the Sangreal, Lord!”

  So in the front of deadly strife he stood;
  The glorious thunder of the roaring guns,
  The restless hurricane of screaming shells,
  The quick, sharp singing of the rifle-balls,
  The sudden clash of sabres, and the beat
  Of rapid horse-hoofs galloping at charge,
  Made a great chorus to his valorous soul,
  The dreadful music of a grappling world,
  That hurried him to fight.  He turned the tide,
  But fell upon its turning.  Over him
  Fluttered the starry flag, and fluttered on,
  While he lay helpless on the trampled sward,
  His hot life running scarlet from its source,
  And all his soul in sudden quiet spent,
  As still as on the silent mountain-top;
  So still that from his quick-remembering heart
  Burst that old cry,—­“Show me the Sangreal, Lord!”